False Lullaby
by J9
Summary: CJ thinks about Simon


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Title: False Lullaby

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Author: Jeanine (jeanine@iol.ie)

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Rating: PG; Angst

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Pairing: CJ/Simon

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Spoilers: _The Two Bartlets; _all the Simon episodes

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Feedback: Makes me do the happy dance of joy

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Disclaimer: If it was in the show, it's not mine.

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Archive: At my site The Band Gazebo (helsinkibaby.topcities.com) Anywhere else please ask first. 

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Summary: _There's a quote stuck in your head tonight and every night, one that won't go away._

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Author's Note: This isn't the CJ/Simon that I tried to write, I swear…it was supposed to be a bit of SIA fluff, and this is what crawled out instead

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You should be used to this. You're the White House Press Secretary; you have been for almost four years now, and before that you spent a year on the Bartlet for America campaign, being groomed for the role. For all that time, you've lived with the media, you've learned their ways, you know their tricks. You know the value of a quote, a good quote, the kind that can be trotted out again and again, the kind that plays on soundbites for months at a time and still sounds just as good the millionth time as it did the first. 

Quotes are your business, your stock in trade, and even though you've heard so many of them in your life, there's one that's stuck in your head tonight and every night, one that just won't go away. It was a throwaway remark from Toby on Air Force One, way back in February, when he was complaining about Doctor Bartlet and Uncle Fluffy, and you were mocking the notion of Governor Ritchie being the Republican nominee for President. Toby probably wouldn't even remember saying it, and truth be told, you probably wouldn't even remember it either, except the quote was in Italian, and you've always loved it when Toby spoke Italian to you; it brought back so many good memories. 

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Quando dio, ole castigarci ci manda, quello che desideriamo. 

When the gods wish to punish us, they answer our prayers. 

Not that you prayed for it, not ever. You're Claudia Jean Cregg. You were a feminist before you could even spell feminist, you've always been wilful, independent, stubborn as a rock in your father's words. He's fond of telling everyone that he always knew you were destined for great things, that he always knew you'd work in the White House one day, and that the proudest day of his life was January 20th 1999 when he watched President Josiah Bartlet take the Oath of Office, knowing the part you'd played in getting him elected. 

He's also fond of joking that he's glad the boys got married and gave him grandchildren, because he knew that he'd never be able to count on you for that. 

You've always laughed right along with him, because the last thing you ever wanted was to be tied down with a husband and kids. You were too independent for that, too driven by your career. You're the cool aunt, and that's how you like it. 

Although lately, having come so close to something great with Danny Concannon - and you didn't lie to yourself, although you lied to everyone else, Danny included; you knew that there could have been something special there - you'd begun to think that it might be nice to have someone to come home to. Someone who'd be there for you, to listen to you vent, or just to tell stories about the day. Someone to sit beside you on the couch, watch a movie with and discuss it afterwards, sit side by side, reading. Someone to fight over the paper with on Sunday morning. Someone to indulge in long lazy lie ins with. 

It would be nice to have someone. 

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Quando dio, ole castigarci ci manda, quello che desideriamo.

Not that that was the way you'd have chosen to find someone. Of all the ways to meet a nice man - the gym, a blind date, midnight shopping at the local Target - having a crazed stalker send you death threats is far, far down the list. You didn't want to take the threats seriously at first; after all, you're the White House Press Secretary, the face of the administration, and you get hundreds of letters and emails and faxes a week. Some are nice, some aren't, but you don't think about them once you've read them, or binned them. 

Donna didn't know that though, and on the evidence, maybe she was right. Who the hell knows any more?

Because soon after she called out for Josh, your life began to spin out of control, and you don't like that, do you Claudia Jean? You've never liked not being in control; it's one of the reasons why you don't like going on fairground rides, the kind where you get thrown upside down and around and round. You tell people you have a weak stomach and make a joke of it, but it's the loss of control that terrifies you. 

The only thing that terrifies you more than losing control is losing face in front of your peers, your colleagues. That's why you refused protection initially, because you thought it was going to make you appear weak. You thought that they wouldn't have assigned protection to Josh or Toby or Sam; that it was just because you were a woman. A woman doing a man's job, a woman who had to work for two years to earn the respect of the Press Corps. A member of the boy's club at long last and you didn't want anything to jeopardise that. 

So you stood in the Oval Office and you argued with the President of the United States, and you told him that you did not want Secret Service protection. 

Then Ron broke out the photographs, and you saw how close this lunatic had come to you. And not just to you, to Hogan. That was what really convinced you, what really made you sign on the dotted line. If it was just for you, that was for one thing, but Hogan could be at risk too, and that was not acceptable. 

It didn't mean that you had to like it. That's why you were as short as possible with him when he first showed up in your office, laying down the law about rules and procedures and what you could do and what you couldn't. 

You were all ready to breeze past him until he put his hand out and closed the door that you were heading towards. You looked at him then, really looked at him for the first time, and that's when you realised that you actually had to look up to look into his eyes. You don't have to do that with many men, and it surprised you a little. But it didn't surprise you as much as the look in his eyes, that look of confidence and surety, the look that said you weren't going to mess with him, and no-one was going to mess with you when he was around. 

You were afraid that having a shadow was going to make you feel fragile, but it didn't. 

But you're Claudia Jean Cregg, the White House Press Secretary, and you didn't have to let him know that. So you complained, long and loud. You accused him of smothering you, of following you everywhere, even to Scandinavia. Sam took great delight in informing you that he'd overheard that, reminding you of a certain White House Deputy who took no end of teasing over a geographical oversight that he'd made, and that he found it interesting that no-one was pointing out to me that Scandinavia is made up of Norway Sweden and Denmark, and that Finland technically doesn't come into it, although many people make that mistake. Only the fact that you had Secret Service agents all around your door, and that they would probably intervene stopped you from committing violence on his person. 

You caught him smirking at Sam's comment and you threw a few more acerbic barbs his way to make up for it, but he never once complained. 

Before long, against your will, you started noticing things about him. Like the fact that he wasn't really so hard to look at for starters. You knew that he'd started to grate on you less when you gave him a nickname; Agent Sunshine. You give everyone nicknames, it's what you do, but he was the first person who ever objected to his; changed it even, insisting on Special Agent Sunshine, if you please. 

Carol noticed something too; you caught her looking at you with that funny little glint in her eyes that she used to get when Danny was on the line for you, and you tried to ignore it. Just like she tried to ignore it when she made her point about emphasising that it was Hogan's junior prom, because you didn't want to cop to an extra year that you didn't have to. 

You didn't say anything, but you knew that she was right. 

That drove you crazy, because you shouldn't have been falling for this man. You're Claudia Jean Cregg, White House Press Secretary, not Whitney Houston in some bad movie with an annoying theme song. You told yourself that it was circumstances, that it was a fleeting attraction, that it was nothing serious. 

You'd almost convinced yourself of that when he took you to the Secret Service gym to work out. You appreciated that, because it was something that he didn't have to do, and you appreciated it even more when you saw him out of that suit that he was required to wear. Sweats and the dishevelled look suited him you realised, and you found yourself imaging what he'd look like lounging around your living room, sharing a lazy Sunday morning with you, and you liked the image. 

You had to do something to distract you from that thought, and that's why you were so eager to try out the shooting range.

Big mistake. 

Not only did you embarrass yourself by falling flat on your rear end, but he made you say something nice about him. So you said the only thing you could; the thing you'd noticed about him that first day. 

"I like that you're tall," you said, before adding, "It makes me feel more feminine."

And it did, and that's something that freaked you out even more than enjoying the image of him and you and lazy Sunday mornings. Because you're Claudia Jean Cregg, White House Press Secretary and fully paid up member of the boys club, and you don't need to feel feminine. You were a tomboy when you were a child, and even now, the only time when you really feel feminine, like the girly girl you never were, is when you're going to one of those society shindigs in a fabulous dress. You can wear an evening dress; you know that; you've seen the guys drooling over you. Even your spin boys do it; the first time they saw you in a formal gown, Josh and Sam had to literally be told to close their mouths as Toby tried to hide a grin, and you've got the photo of their slackjawed expressions to prove it. 

Can you even remember the last time you felt feminine without the designer dress and the heels that kill you and the makeup? 

And yet there you were, standing close to him, in sweaty work out clothes, hair pinned up haphazardly, and feeling very much like a woman. 

You walked away, but you almost kissed him the next night, and you felt rejected when he pulled away. He explained why later, but you played dumb and denied trying to kiss him. Still, the fact that he tried to explain went some way to salving your hurt pride, but you still tried to prevent him from coming on the plane with you. 

He thought it was because you were pissed at him, or bucking the need for protection yet again. 

Really it was because you knew he'd have to be in a tux, and there was no way that you'd be able to concentrate on work with that particular piece of eye candy in front of you. 

And now you really, really wish you'd tried harder to convince him. 

New York is a magical city, you've always thought that, and Broadway is a magical place. You daydreamed on the plane about the two of you walking down the street together there, and that's a dream that came true, although not like you thought. 

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Quando dio, ole castigarci ci manda, quello che desideriamo.

You fought with him. You were both angry, both caustic. You told him that you liked him, he kind of admitted it to you too. 

Then his cell phone rang, and when he hung up, he had good news. 

They caught the stalker. 

It was over. 

You weren't a protectee anymore, and once he filled out the paperwork, it was over. 

It was over. 

Just like you'd prayed.

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Quando dio, ole castigarci ci manda, quello che desideriamo.

He told you all the things that you could do; drive your car, walk in a crowd, eat a grapefruit. 

The only thing that you wanted to do though, was kiss him, and you'd already done that, when he'd given you the news. So once he told you that you could do whatever you wanted, you went straight to number two on your list. You asked him out for a drink, and he said yes. 

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Quando dio, ole castigarci ci manda, quello che desideriamo.

You'd been looking forward to the play, but you didn't pay attention to a word of it. You were too busy dreaming about that kiss, about how handsome he'd looked in his tuxedo, about how, for all that, you really couldn't wait to get him out of it. You were dreaming of lazy lie ins and fighting over the morning paper and maybe even taking a vacation together one of these days. 

For a few glorious minutes, you forgot that you were Claudia Jean Cregg, the White House Press Secretary, and let yourself be Claudia Jean Cregg, the woman, who had finally met a nice guy that she could see herself being happy with. 

Then Ron tapped you on the shoulder and motioned for you to follow him out. 

The rest of the night is a blur, but you can remember sitting on a bench in the open air, sobbing. You remember Toby's arm around you, strong and silent in his support, and Sam's hand on your back, rubbing gently. Carol hovered around you on the flight back like a mother hen, and you tried not to notice the tear tracks on her face. 

You went home that night to your empty apartment, and you cried some more, for everything you dreamed, for everything that could have been, for everything that looked likely. You don't know how long you lay there, sobbing, or when you fell asleep, but when you woke up, your eyes were red, your face was puffy and your head was pounding. 

The only thing you wanted to do was bury your head in your pillow and go back to sleep. 

But you're Claudia Jean Cregg, the White House Press Secretary, so you didn't do that. You got up and you showered and you dressed and you slathered on make-up and when you got into work, you looked almost human. You did your briefings and you didn't even stumble on his name, but you had to lie down for ten minutes afterwards before you'd let Carol send people into you. 

You've done that every day since the shooting, and you smile at people, and you tell them that you're fine and that they shouldn't worry about you. Some of them even believe you. 

Then you get home, and you're on your own again, and you cry when you think about the man who you knew for so little time, but who ended up meaning so much to you. You try on every ball gown in your wardrobe, you go to every dress shop you know, but you can't find the dress that would make you feel as feminine as he did with just one look. You listen to your girlfriends tell you how they'd give anything to find a man who could sweep them off their feet, and you try not to remember the one you had who didn't sweep you off your feet; but who knocked you on your ass instead. Who stole your heart like he stole your sparkplug, but who didn't give it back. 

And you empathise with Josh; Josh, whose memories of Rosslyn are sometimes triggered by music. Music has always been your refuge, your comfort, but now even that's denied to you, because no matter what plays, it always turns into the same lyric, taunting you, mocking you, an endless lullaby stuck in your head as you try to go to sleep. 

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You'll never know dear, how much I love you,

Please don't take my sunshine away…

It's a false lullaby of course, because he did know. You think he did. You hope he did. 

They still took him away though. 

But you still find yourself thinking it, even singing it quietly to yourself as you hold your pillow to you and pretend that it's him, wishing that morning would come soon. 

It's a false lullaby, but it's all you've got. 


End file.
